for my father 1897-1976

No one’s body could be that light,
not even after it burns—
I know this is not you,
has nothing to do with you

I know you stand on a ship
looking through the eyeholes
nearsighted and patient as always,
still knowing everything

No matter what language they speak,
the boat men in the black barges
they pass you, you will answer

No matter what bundle of time
they inhabit, you will direct them,
warn them once more and once more in vain

You who changed countries more often than shoes
can step ashore anywhere;
loneliness is the anchor
you’ve always carried with you

                                         *

The desert is what I would have spared you,
the wilderness after my mother died,
your fixed star

Everything could be borne,
all knowledge, all separation
except that final one.

Slowly you turned to stone

And I, your daughter/keeper—
what did I know about
the sentience of stone?

I watered you with indignities
and tears, but you never bloomed

Now both of you have entered
the history of your photographs
together, young and smiling,
you stand on the steps of Notre Dame
“These are my parents, friends, and children,”
I say, but it is hopeless

I want the impossible photograph,
one that would show the world
your trick, how you and she
pulled joy from any borrowed hat
or sleeve, a survivor’s art

This is the hardest knowledge:
that no one will remember you
when your daughters are gone

                                         *

Five years before you died
I took your picture;
you were wearing a dark jacket
and your hair was white

Now I hold the negative
up to the light and the sun streams through
as though it were Notre Dame again,
the rose window

You are changed, you wear
the pale clothes of summer,
your skin and hair are black

How can you see, your glasses
are whitewashed and there are holes
where your teeth used to be

Nevertheless you smile at me
across an enormous distance
as you have so many times
to let me know you have arrived